Chapter 2 - The Scent of Lilies and Betrayal
The silence inside the mahogany box was absolute, save for the frantic, thunderous hammering of my own heart.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
How was my heart still beating at a normal rhythm while every nerve ending in my body felt like it was coated in liquid nitrogen? The neurotoxin—whatever vile, untraceable concoction Olivia and Mason had slipped into that morning coffee—had locked every voluntary muscle in a vice grip. My eyes were jammed shut behind swollen lids. My tongue lay like a heavy piece of lead against the floor of my mouth, useless and dry.
Outside the satin-lined walls, the low, muffled drone of the organ swelled, filling the chapel with a mournful, weeping hymn that felt like a cruel mockery of my entire existence.
“Ethan was far too young to die…”
The voice belonged to Aunt Beatrice, whose handkerchief had undoubtedly been soaked with tears she didn’t genuinely shed, though she at least had the excuse of family obligation. Olivia, however, didn't even bother to feign a crack in her voice when she spoke next. Her footsteps clicked sharply against the marble floor of St. Jude’s Memorial Chapel, coming closer to the pedestal where my casket rested.
“It’s almost time, Mason,” Olivia murmured, her voice carrying that cool, effortless composure that used to charm boardrooms and charity galas alike. “Are you certain the undertaker can be trusted?”
“Absolute,” Mason’s smooth, practiced baritone drifted through the wood. The voice that had spent six months pretending to rehabilitate my torn shoulder after the skiing accident, guiding my stretches with reassuring smiles, now sounded like the hiss of a coiled snake. “He’s heavily in debt from his divorce. Five thousand cash up front, another twenty after the ashes are scattered in the lake. He’ll sign off on the direct-cremation certificate without an independent autopsy. No questions asked.”
A cold shudder raced through my frozen veins.
Ashes scattered in the lake.
They weren’t just planning to rob me. They were planning to eradicate every single physical trace of my existence before tomorrow's sunrise. My multi-million-dollar tech portfolio, the downtown commercial real estate holdings, the offshore accounts, and the sprawling estate overlooking the lake—all of it would funnel cleanly into Olivia’s name as the sole surviving widow, with Mason waiting in the wings as her legal and financial advisor, until they split the spoils and disappeared to the Mediterranean.
It was a masterpiece of greed. Cold, calculated, and executed with the chilling precision of two people who had spent months whispering behind my back while I thanked them for their care.
“Make sure you check the pockets of his burial suit before they lock the lid down,” Olivia whispered, her breath brushing against the polished exterior of the wood. “The safety deposit box key is on his key ring. I want it before we leave for the crematorium.”
“Relax, darling,” Mason replied, and the sound of his footsteps shifted as he stepped closer to the casket. “Nobody is going to open this box until the rollers hit the furnace chamber. By then, the heat will take care of any lingering traces of the paralytic compound in his bloodstream. The coroner will rule it a massive, fatal stroke brought on by sudden cardiac arrest. It’s medically bulletproof.”
Stroke.
That was their cover story. At thirty-eight, with a clean bill of health and an active lifestyle, a sudden stroke was statistically rare, but medical examiners saw anomalies every day. Especially when bribed or pressured by a grieving, beautiful widow and a trusted medical professional who provided all the necessary charts and preliminary documentation.
Inside the pitch-black confines of the casket, my mind raced with a desperate, manic energy.
Move. Just move one finger.
I concentrated every ounce of my willpower into my right hand, picturing the muscles in my forearm contracting, the tendons pulling, the fingers curling into a fist. I imagined digging my fingernails into the quilted satin lining, ripping the fabric, pounding against the wood until someone—anyone—in that crowded chapel heard the echo.
Nothing.
Not a twitch. Not a flutter. My body remained a dead weight, locked behind a wall of total paralysis.
“We should step back now,” Mason said, his voice dropping into a professional register as the heavy chapel doors creaked open, signaling the arrival of the pallbearers. “The service is concluding. Let’s look like the grieving widow and the loyal friend.”
“Right,” Olivia sighed, her tone shifting instantly into a performance of tragic, fragile sorrow. “Hand me my veil, Mason.”
A moment later, the sharp, rhythmic clack of heels receded across the marble floor.
Then came the heavy, coordinated thuds of men approaching the casket.
One, two, three, four.
Hands gripped the brass handles on either side of the box. The entire structure jerked violently, tilting to the left as the pallbearers hoisted the heavy mahogany frame onto their shoulders. The sudden motion threw my head back against the satin pillow with a dull thud.
Nausea rolled through my stomach, hot and acidic, but my throat refused to let me retch. I was trapped inside my own suffocating prison, being carried down the central aisle of the chapel while hundreds of mourners bowed their heads in respectful, ignorant silence.
Don't let them take me to the fire.
May you like
The thought screamed inside my skull with the intensity of a siren.
Don't let them burn me.
